


high tide season

by thelittlebirdthattoldyou



Series: spiker-setter week 2020 [5]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Humor, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Alternating, Strangers to Lovers, see author's notes for more explanation, yes at the same time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26393902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlebirdthattoldyou/pseuds/thelittlebirdthattoldyou
Summary: Hajime stops in his tracks as soon as he climbs down to the beach proper. His eyes land on a conspicuous figure alone on the shore.A man, a brunet, lying face down and naked.Iwaizumi is a human prince who gets in over his head. Oikawa is almost a mermaid, but not quite. And sometimes, it's all too easy to fall in love with nothing but a voice.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: spiker-setter week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912567
Comments: 32
Kudos: 91
Collections: Haikyuu: Spiker-Setter Week





	1. Swell

**Author's Note:**

> spiker-setter week day 5: **sacrifice** | **secrets**
> 
> this was supposed to be a oneshot but it ballooned and turned into a multichap so. updates will be once a week-ish.
> 
> thanks to [ava](/users/aloeverava/) and [keith](/users/NikAdair/) for beta-ing!
> 
> please see end notes for trigger warnings!!

The rocky path down to the beach is well-worn by now. Hajime takes it every week at least, every time he manages to find some excuse to slip away from his duties at the palace. This part of the beach is cut off from the rest of the coastline. It’s a stretch of land that technically belongs to the crown, but the sand is grainy and jagged rocks rise out of the water, rendering it unsuitable for swimming and thus unpopular among the royal family. No one comes around here except for Hajime.

He smiles, pace quickening as he thinks about his intended destination, but stops in his tracks as soon as he climbs down to the beach proper. His eyes land on a conspicuous figure alone on the shore.

A man, a brunet, lying face down and naked.

Hajime spares a glance for the small, sheltered cove he was originally headed to, feeling a pang of regret, and then decides that some things are more important. He rushes over to the man, dropping to his knees next to him and sending up a small spray of sand as he does.

At a loss, and terrified that it’s too late, that the man is already dead, Hajime hesitates before putting a hand lightly on his shoulder. The skin is warm. Hajime hopes that’s a sign of life and not merely a side effect of the burning sun.

“Hey,” he says softly. He shakes the man slightly. Then, louder: “Hey! Are you okay?”

He waits for a few seconds, and he’s about to try again when he feels the muscle seize under his hand. The man makes a strangled noise, and then he starts coughing: shuddery, croaking noises that send violent tremors through his whole body. He curls in on himself on his side, fetal position, and hugs his arms close to his chest as seawater is expelled from his lungs.

Hajime panics—he’s a prince; he’s not trained in medicine. All he can do is rub his thumb in what he hopes are soothing circles on the man’s shoulder as he trembles.

Eventually, the wet coughs turn into dry, rasping ones, and Hajime waits until those subside into small bodily shivers. He realizes that he’s murmuring soft words of comfort under his breath: “You’re good, you’re okay, come on. Hey, I’ve got you. Come on.”

An arm shoots out and gropes blindly in Iwaizumi’s direction. A hand wraps around Hajime’s forearm, and the man lifts himself up on his elbow.

His eyes flutter open, and Hajime’s breath catches in his throat. For some reason, he’d expected the man’s eyes to be blue, like the ocean around them, like the ocean that he must have washed ashore from. They’re not blue. They’re a lovely dark brown that shines almost amber in the sun, wide and round and framed with long lashes. Hajime is left speechless, and it takes a few seconds for his thoughts to return to him.

The stranger recovers first. He wrenches out of Hajime’s grasp and scrambles into a sitting position, knees tucked up to his chest. He stares down at his legs, eyes distant. Almost confused, which Hajime can understand.

Hajime has to physically restrain himself from following the line of the man’s gaze; he keeps his eyes fixed on his face. In the periphery of his vision he can see smooth expanses of skin, unreasonably pale and milky soft for someone who’s been so exposed to salt water—long, lithe limbs dusted with fine hair—

He shakes his head to clear it. This is ridiculous. The poor guy looks like he just escaped a shipwreck; Hajime should be doing his best to help, not _ogling_ his nude form.

Well—almost nude. The only adornment on his body comes in the form of an orange-and-white striped nautilus hanging on a fine thread around his neck. He reaches up to clutch at it, as if to solicit comfort from the small shell.

“I’m Iwaizumi Hajime. I’m here to help,” Hajime says, pitching his voice low. “What’s your name?”

The stranger opens his mouth, and his chest rises and falls rapidly. He works his jaw, but nothing comes out; the hands grabbing at his nautilus necklace fly up and wrap around his throat. The man closes his mouth, eyes wide with panic, and shakes his head, and Hajime grimaces.

“You can’t speak? Can you understand me?”

A nod.

“Can you—I don’t know, do you know how to write or something?”

Another nod. Hajime sighs in relief. “Great. Here, let me take you—er, to my place. I’ll get you something to write with, and you can tell me your name and where you’re from.”

The man frowns at him, head tilted in a confused manner.

“What?” Hajime asks.

He rolls his eyes and leans forward, drawing a circle in the sand with his pointer finger. He looks up to give Hajime a judgemental look.

Hajime scowls. “Shut up.”

The man presses his lips together and goes back to his writing. He adds an “i” onto the circle, and then a “k”—

“Oikawa?” Hajime sounds out the syllables, noticing the way the man lights up as he does so.

The stranger—no, Oikawa—grins at him and flashes a peace sign, and the sudden absurdity of the gesture surprises a laugh out of Hajime. Oikawa glares at him.

“No, no, it’s just—Jesus, I don’t know what the fuck is happening. But come on, you can’t stay out here. I’m taking you with me.”

Hajime stands, but Oikawa doesn’t follow. He stays still and looks back down at his legs with distrustful eyes. Hajime holds out a hand for him to use to pull himself up.

With a brief moment of hesitation, Oikawa reaches out and grabs it, letting himself be hoisted to his feet. As soon as he’s upright, Hajime lets go. He’s annoyed, for some reason, to realize that Oikawa is taller than him by a couple of inches.

But then he has bigger things to worry about, because Oikawa manages one and a half shaky steps before his legs collapse from under him, and he falls hard onto his hands and knees with a pained wince.

“Shit.” Hajime drops to his knees. “Here, wait—lean on me.”

He wraps one of Oikawa’s arms around his shoulder, and they rise to their feet together. He’s heavy, but not as heavy as he should be. Oikawa is obviously trying to support more of his own weight than he can.

Hajime sighs and jostles him. “I’m serious. Let me help you, or we’ll be here all day.”

Oikawa’s shoulders slump and, his lips pressed into a tight line, he rests more of his weight on Hajime. _Stubborn idiot._

They shuffle to the narrow, rocky path that leads back up to the mainland. It’s not wide enough for them to fit side-by-side, so Hajime pushes Oikawa in front of him and keeps a hand splayed on his back to support him as he picks his way over the scattered pebbles and shards of sea glass. Hajime keeps his eyes fixed pointedly on the back of Oikawa’s head, where the hair is still damp and stiff with salt.

He’s never been more grateful for the abandoned servants’ entrance at the side of the palace. The royal staff has an updated network of tunnels that they use to conduct their business behind the scenes, but the old ones haven’t yet been filled. Hajime makes use of those to herd Oikawa inside.

It’s harder than he thought it would be. Oikawa pauses every few steps to incline his head and stare up at the castle walls, gleaming white marble, like he’s never seen a building before. His lips, plush and pink, part in a small, surprised “o” with every new feature he takes in, and Hajime has to remind himself to look away and drag them forward together.

Navigating these passages is a familiar enterprise for him. He used to walk these cramped halls constantly, every time the tutors and the etiquette lessons became too much to bother with. Now that he’s older, he has more independence and doesn’t have to resort to the tunnels, but the old knowledge has stayed with him.

Hajime takes them down the mazelike route that leads to his bedroom in the west wing, on one of the top floors. Oikawa follows like a lost child, and he almost trips more than a few times because he keeps looking at the unlit brass sconces or the brick pattern of the walls instead of the path in front of him. If Hajime hadn’t been there to stabilize him, he would have fallen and knocked his front teeth out.

But as it is, they manage to make it to his room without incident. They duck out from behind a large tapestry, sending a haze of dust spiraling through the air. Hajime waves it away and lets go of Oikawa, who manages to stay on his feet this time, only swaying a little.

Hajime makes for his closet. He’s broader than Oikawa is, and a few centimeters shorter, but he should have some old clothes that fit.

He scrounges around for a loose white shirt with billowy sleeves and a pair of brown trousers. “Oikawa!” he calls over his shoulder, and waits for an answer before he realizes his mistake and flushes.

When he turns, he finds Oikawa standing by the dresser, totally enraptured by the golden candelabra he’s turning over in his hands. He waves at Hajime and points down at it with an expectant quirk of his eyebrow.

“Candle,” Hajime says, bewildered.

Oikawa nods and sets it back down in its place. He points across the room to another object on the wall.

“Clock.” What kind of person doesn’t know what a clock is?

Hajime indulges him for a few more rounds: “Bed. Door. Tapestry.” And then he huffs and throws the bundle of clothes at Oikawa.

Oikawa catches them with an affronted look in Hajime’s direction. It turns into something like excitement when he unfolds the shirt and smooths a hand over the fabric.

Hajime turns to give him a semblance of privacy when he changes. He waits a few minutes, counting the seconds out under his breath, before risking a peek behind him. Oikawa is done putting the clothes on, but he’s fumbling with the ribbon at his collar, flailing them around in the air with a puzzled frown.

It’s a little endearing, he won’t lie. Hajime crosses the room and ties the ribbon for him in several concise motions, but he makes the mistake of meeting Oikawa’s eyes when he’s done. Too late, he realizes how close together their faces are, and jumps away. An amused smile pulls at Oikawa’s lips, and Hajime clears his throat, turning his face away so Oikawa can’t see the pink spreading over his face.

His eyes, darting away from Oikawa’s, land on the desk in a corner of his room. An idea occurs to him. He heads over and opens the very bottom drawer. It’s rarely used nowadays, full of things from his childhood that he didn’t have the heart to throw away. And one of those things is a small sketchbook, bound in leather. It’s worn at the seams, but it should serve the purpose he intends it to.

One of his uncles bought it for him for his seventh birthday. Hajime remembers how excited he was. He’d carried it around with him wherever he went, trying his best to copy the things he saw in charcoal and blank space. There had been fantasies of being an artist, back then, before he learned that his birthright meant law and politics and fancy dinners, and the most he had time for art was a few hurried scribbles in the margins of his heavy history textbooks.

The dreams faded, and so did the itch to pick up the sketchbook again, but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it entirely. So he dusts off the cover now and rummages around for a pencil.

Oikawa, at this point, has made himself comfortable on the bed. Hajime hands the items over to him, and he gets a small smile of thanks in response.

Flipping to the first page, though, Oikawa stills. Hajime is about to ask him what’s wrong, when he catches a glimpse of the blurry markings on the paper. And then he remembers exactly what it is that he’d been so obsessed with drawing all those years ago.

_“Are you ever going to come out?”_

_“Not today, Hajime-chan, I don’t think.”_

_“But I can’t draw you if I don’t know what you look like.”_

_“Just pretend. Whatever you’re drawing, make it up.”_

_“You can do that?”_

_“Sure, why not? Most things are prettier in your imagination anyway.”_

Doodles of little mermaids fill each page, with boyish faces and round cheeks and fish tails. Some of them have long hair, some short, and others have dark skin or freckles. As Oikawa flips the pages, the drawings become increasingly fanciful. Some with shark teeth. Some with rainbow fins.

“Don’t mind those,” Hajime says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, there are blank pages further on.”

Oikawa gives the faded pictures one long, inscrutable once-over, and then he turns to the first blank page. Hajime breathes out a sigh of relief; for some reason, with the drawings out in plain sight, he had felt too raw.

“Where are you from?” Hajime asks.

Frowning, Oikawa chews on his lip. He makes a mark on the page, but then his arm jolts and scratches a dark line through it.

Hajime blinks at the black smear. This is new. Oikawa hadn’t had any problems writing on the beach. “Um,” he says. “How about—do you have a first name?”

Oikawa puts pencil to paper and tries again, but it happens again. This time, he doesn’t manage anything more than a dot before his hand jerks, and the pencil flies out of his grip and across the room.

Both of them stare at it.

“That was—” Hajime begins.

Oikawa crosses his arms and nods his head in the direction where the pencil landed. It’s a gesture that very obviously means, _Go get it for me,_ and Hajime scoffs.

“I’m not your maid,” he says. “I’m the prince here, actually. Kind of a big deal.”

For a moment, Oikawa’s expression freezes in place. It’s brittle, as if he could shatter at any moment, but it passes so quickly Hajime is sure he must have imagined it. Oikawa makes a shooing motion with his hands. Hajime concedes defeat and grabs the pencil, tossing it back on the bed.

Oikawa takes it and, chewing his lip in thought, traces careful, slow lines in the sketchbook. Hajime holds his breath, but the writing is smooth, and soon Oikawa holds the pages up, beaming, for him to examine.

_Have you seen me?_ the kanji ask. _I’m kind of a big deal, too, Iwa-chan._

Hajime rolls his eyes, but he's smiling anyway.

* * *

_That morning:_

On his eighteenth birthday, Oikawa Tooru realizes that he’s in love.

It’s like this: he wakes up on a bed of soft kelp, inky black tentacles bunched up around him, and his first thought is that he really ought to go to the lagoon today to see if Iwaizumi will be there. Just thinking about the human boy sparks a bright, warm glow in his chest. Tooru’s never been close enough to get a real look at him—one that lasts for more than a few seconds—because he’s scared that he’ll slip up and Iwaizumi will see what he is and be disgusted, but he’s caught glimpses from behind the rocks and vines of the lagoon. Tooru constantly finds himself drawn closer, skirting the edge of danger in the hopes of another glance at spiky black hair or broad shoulders or suntanned skin. He realizes that he kind of wants to kiss Iwaizumi, and he thinks _oh,_ and the warmth in his chest bubbles over and threatens to consume him.

He decides that he likes being in love. Realistically, there’s no way they could ever work out, not when Tooru isn’t even willing to show Iwaizumi his face. But pretending is harmless. It’s safe. Fantasizing about Iwaizumi kissing him, holding him, accepting him even despite the tentacles? He likes it.

Heart beating fast and a content smile painted on his lips, Oikawa starts on his extensive morning routine. It’s _hard,_ after all, to keep your skin and hair soft when you live in a saltwater habitat. There are several poultices and exfoliates that go into it, and a little magic on top of that. But it’s always been a habit for him to control the parts of his appearance that he can, as if that will somehow lessen the horror others feel at the sight of him.

Humming under his breath, Tooru gets so wrapped up in the familiarity of his actions that he almost doesn’t register it when another presence suddenly appears behind him. He hears the silky swish of ten limbs in the water, and the air around him turns cloudy with black ink, and—

He stiffens. “Good morning, mother,” he says.

“Tooru.” The name is a velvety whisper, draping possessively over his shoulders, threatening to envelope him, and he suppresses a small shudder. “Happy birthday, my dear.”

“Thank you.”

“Hm. How old are you this time?”

“Eighteen, mother.”

“Ah.” A pleased sigh that sets Tooru on edge. “Eighteen is a very special age for us, don’t you remember?”

“I don’t know—” Tooru cuts off, then, because he _does_ know. He’d just been too wrapped up thinking about Iwaizumi to remember. Stupid, stupid. Fear settles hot and sour in his gut, and he thinks he might throw up.

“Eighteen. Mm. The day of your first kill.”

It’s tradition, of course: when a siren reaches adulthood, they take their first heart, lure their first sailor to death. Their song so sweet that no one can resist it, all those legions of men drowned for the sake of cheap infatuation.

“And what better gift for my little prince,” his mother hisses, “than the heart of a human prince himself?”

Tooru goes cold all over. Was this all planned? Does his mother—has she somehow found out? It’s not beyond her to toy with him like this; she’s done it before. And now ice pierces his heart like a sharpened dagger. How, knowing what he knows now, is he meant to kill Iwaizumi?

“I can’t,” Tooru says. His voice is barely a whisper, but of course she hears.

She pauses, and then the ink around him returns full-force, ten times stronger now that she’s displeased, the darkness suffocating. “You can’t?” she sneers. “What loyalties do you have to these pathetic humans? Would you choose this stranger over your mother, who raised you, who loves you?”

Tooru bites his tongue and squeezes his eyes shut. He only has one thought now, which is that no matter what happens, he can’t let his mother find out about—about _that._ About the love, so rare among his kind it’s usually dismissed out of hand, that has made a home of his heart.

“Or,” his mother says, “not a stranger. Is he the one you run off to, Tooru, when you run away from me? Is this boy the one who’s been stealing you away from me?” She grabs him by the chin, sharp nails digging into his skin, and jerks his head forward.

Tooru keeps his eyes closed. If he opens them, if he lets his mother look into them, it’s all lost.

It’s no use, of course. She’s stronger than he is; how many sailors’ hearts must she have consumed by now? Hundreds, perhaps. Certainly more than Tooru, who hasn’t even killed his first.

She clasps her hands around Tooru’s neck, her palms blocking water from Tooru’s gills. They flutter uselessly, open and close with no air to travel in or out.

Fuzzy white static clouds his vision; the blood pounds in his ears. His lungs heave, desperate for air, and his mother’s hands around his neck are a collar he’ll never be rid of. She’s a tiger shark, but worse, because she kills for pleasure rather than hunger. Or perhaps it’s more apt to say that she hungers for the pleasure of killing, for the dominance that comes with feeling the delicate bones of someone’s throat crack under her hands.

Either way, Tooru’s lungs burn, and his tentacles go limp at his sides. The world, the water around him, fades into a faint buzzing itch that he drifts farther away from with every second, and he can’t—he _can’t_ —

Tooru’s lips part around an airless cry. His eyes fly open, and he finds himself staring into his mother’s. They’re jet black, cruel and emotionless, and she smiles with sharp teeth and finally, finally takes her hands away.

He doubles over as soon as she lets him go, clutching at his chest. It still feels like he’s being stabbed with a thousand needles, but she doesn’t give him time to recover. She just grabs his face again and forces him to meet her eyes, and Tooru goes without resistance. It’ll only be worse for him if he struggles.

Her flat eyes bore into his. There’s a kind of terrible hunger in them that is only brought about by the cruelty of intelligence. Tooru feels the sharp edges of her mind like pinpricks into his own. Mere seconds, and the pricks intensify into an unbearable pressure. It’s like his head is being split open; his vision whites out.

It could last seconds or years; all Tooru knows is that every fiber of his being is screaming for the pain to stop.

Tooru only has a vague awareness about his physical body—the mental pain overtakes everything else—but, distantly, he registers himself being thrown backward like a ragdoll into the rough walls of the cave. The back of his head thuds against it, making him wince, but at least it startles him back into reality.

The sparse furnishings of his room swim back into view. His collision with the wall had knocked over one of his makeshift stone shelvesr; all the knickknacks he’d collected over the years— _the things Iwaizumi left for you,_ his traitor brain supplies—are strewn over the floor. Amidst the wreckage stands his mother, eyes blazing, eight tentacled limbs surrounding her like battle armor.

“You would _dare,”_ she spits, “to fall in love? _You?”_

“It wasn’t my choice—”

“I raised you to be better than this. I raised you to be _smart._ Do you think this man will bring you anything but heartache? Do you think he would ever love something like _you?”_

Tooru freezes. Just minutes—had they been minutes?—ago he had been fine with the idea of loving Iwaizumi from afar, expecting nothing in return. But now his mother’s words tear at his skin, and his heart feels far too exposed despite the layers of flesh and bone that cage it.

“You see? He will bring you nothing but more of this—pain and loneliness. Better to be rid of him now.”

“I’m not going to lure him,” Tooru says.

His mother gnashes her teeth. “You’d forsake the heart of a prince—you’d forsake the song I passed down to you.”

As if he’d wanted the song in the first place. He thinks back to the first and only time he’d ever sung to Iwaizumi, after copious entreaties from the human boy, and cringes. That had been a mistake, and their friendship, even now, feels tainted by it. No one so earnest should ever have to hear a song so wild.

“If you won’t use the song, then consider it forfeit. One way or another you will claim the prince’s heart, and when you fail this time, I will gladly rise to the surface and eat it out from between his ribs myself.”

Tooru opens his mouth to ask what that means, but nothing comes out. His eyes widen in panic as he tries to eke the syllables from his vocal chords. Nothing happens.

And then, before he can say or do anything else, he’s overcome by a dizzying wave of nausea. He crumples to the floor in a ball, and the last thing he sees is his mother’s delighted face smirking down at him, distorted and disjointed through a small whirlpool of water.

When he awakes again, he tests his voice again and finds that it’s failed him. And then there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he looks up into a beloved face, and the first thing he thinks is, _His eyes are green._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: physical abuse (choking) starting at the line “tooru keeps his eyes closed” and ending at “you would dare?” general shitty parenting, emotional manipulation, and self-esteem issues.
> 
> 1) i need to make it clear that there will be no weird tentacle happenings in this fic.
> 
> ~~2) ao3 is just. not letting me reply to comments at all anymore and i am Heartbroken about it. i've literally typed responses to every comment in my inbox on a google doc am reading all the comments i get and i appreciate every one of them immensely <3~~


	2. Crest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: will update once a week!  
> also me: disappears for a solid month
> 
> wow im,, very sorry about not updating?? my only excuse is that i've been swamped with college app/scholarship stuff and i haven't been able to write :((
> 
> on the upside, i've updated [my tumblr](https://thelittlebirdthattoldyou.tumblr.com/) with a posting schedule for the rest of the year, and i'm planning to be more active on there from now on. i also have [a carrd](https://thelittlebirdthattoldyou.carrd.co/) if you want to check that out!
> 
> ty for being patient with me <3

They can’t keep Oikawa’s existence hidden from the rest of the palace forever, of course. If Hajime is honest, they haven't been as diligent about keeping his presence under wraps as they should be. His maids are already starting to wonder why he's been requesting that more and more food be brought up to his room over the past week. But Oikawa looks so delighted every time he gets to try a new delicacy that Hajime can’t help himself.

He learns more about Oikawa, partly through the notes he writes, but mostly from sitting back and watching him. Hajime puts Oikawa up in a guest room just down the hall from his own quarters, and Oikawa settles into the space, into Hajime's life, like it’s his due. He swans around the place with that imperious air of his, like he owns it. And he's curious about everything, constantly interrupting Hajime's studies to ask about some new discovery or another.

Oikawa's favorite color is turquoise. He likes the smell of fresh flowers, but he likes the sea air more. He spends way too much time doing his hair every morning.

Considering he still knows nothing about who Oikawa really is or where he’s from or why he's here, Hajime is growing unreasonably attached. He chalks it up to proximity. He and Oikawa have been living in a shared space for awhile now, and though his palace wing is large enough to comfortably house both of them, it's still small enough that they see each other more than they see anyone else. Hajime just needs to get away for a little bit, clear his head. Maybe then he'll be able to get his thoughts in order.

Which is why, the Saturday exactly one week after Oikawa first washes ashore, he makes his excuses about having royal duties to attend to and heads back down to the beach. Oikawa takes it in stride, waving him off with a small smile and a _don't miss me too much, Iwa-chan_ , but there’s a strange, knowing glint in his eyes.

This time around, the beach is empty. Sand crunches under Hajime's feet; the crash of waves on the surf fills his ears. Seagulls screech overhead.

Hajime climbs down the craggy path and makes his way to the small cave at the end of the sandy strip. It opens into a surprisingly wide cavern. The rocky walls, lined with algae, enclose a luminous blue-green lagoon. The lagoon feeds into the rest of the ocean somehow, but Hajime has never explored it, since the water is too murky and treacherous to be safe to swim in.

For humans, anyway.

“Oi,” Hajime says when he steps inside. “You there?”

The only sound that returns to him is the echo of his own voice on the stone. He stays still and listens for the telltale splash of fins in the water, but nothing happens.

Hajime sighs. “Are you mad at me because I didn’t come last week?” he asks. Knowing the merman, he would for sure hold a grudge over something like that. For all Hajime knows, he's waiting in one of the lagoon's many hiding spots and silently judging everything Hajime does.

“Sorry. There was a guy half-drowning on the beach,” he says. “It was kind of important. And I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Silence.

He huffs and crouches, dusting away the sand from a section of the rock before taking a seat. “I’m not going to replace you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says. “I mean, he’s pretty, but I’m sure you’re prettier. If you would just show me what you look like.”

He’s not even sure whether the merman is listening to him, but fuck it. “I know, I know. We had that talk last year and I agreed to wait for you. Until you’re ready to come out. But—I don’t get it. There’s nothing you could show me that would make me stop wanting to talk to you.”

That, he expects, ought to elicit a reaction—if nothing else, the merman has always been susceptible to displays of affection from him. But still, there’s no sound.

Hajime scowls. “Fine, be like that, then." He sighs and leans backward, planting his arms behind him on the stone and using them to support his weight. For a few seconds, he does nothing but stare up at the ceiling. It's nearing noon, but it's still dark; there's no skylight in the cavern. No source of light except the entrance Hajime came from and the bioluminescent algae that illuminates a few select parts of the water.

He closes his eyes and listens to the gentle lapping of waves on the shore.

After another handful of moments pass in silence, Hajime clears his throat. "I don’t have anything else to say, so—I’ll be back next week. And you’d better not ignore me again. Or whatever you're doing.”

There’s not even a ripple in the water, so he stands and brushes himself off. “See you then, Tooru,” he says, and leaves.

By the time he gets back to the castle, he’s half annoyed and half worried. Tooru is a brat, sure, and he certainly knows how to hold a grudge, but he’s also not the type to give people the silent treatment when it comes to minor issues like these. When he's annoyed, he tends to make his displeasure known. Loudly. Hajime can only think of one time that Hajime saw Tooru really, truly upset, and he'd hated it. Hated the way Tooru's voice, usually so sure, grew small and anxious. Hajime hopes this isn't going to be a repeat situation. He cringes at the very thought.

Well, there's nothing he can do now but wait. Hopefully, Tooru will be there next week.

Hajime takes the front entrance to the palace this time, since Oikawa's not there for him to worry about. As soon as he reaches the wing where his rooms are located, a maid runs up to him, wringing her hands, a concerned look on her face.

“Iwaizumi-sama,” Yachi says with a quick bow. “Um—Matsukawa-san and Hanamaki-san stopped by earlier to see you. You weren’t in, so I let them in and told them to wait—I hope that’s okay—”

“Huh? Oh, sure, that’s fine.” Then Hajime freezes, eyes going wide. “Wait. Fuck.”

Yachi pales. “Sir? Did I do something—”

“No, nothing like that.” He offers her a brief, reassuring smile. “Thank you. I’ll take care of it.”

She nods and bows again as she passes Hajime, heading in the opposite direction and ducking into one of the many lavish hallways nearby.

Hajime grits his teeth and makes his way to his private salon, where he receives guests. There’s a chance, of course, that Oikawa _isn’t_ there and that Oikawa _didn’t_ just reveal his existence to two of the worst troublemakers in the entire kingdom of Aoba Johsai. But Hajime doubts he’s that lucky.

He’s spent the last week familiarizing Oikawa with the system of old tunnels that twist and turn through practically every part of the building. Oikawa took to them with unusual ease. They’re so dark that Hajime has to remember to bring a lantern with him if he wants to go far, but Oikawa has no problem maneuvering in the pitch black. When Hajime’s stuck in political strategy meetings or diplomatic dinners, Oikawa spends his time exploring, and it’s likely that he would have heard of Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s visit and been interested enough to investigate further.

Hajime stops in front of the gilded door to the salon, places a hand on the gold handle. He takes a deep breath and pushes it open.

Sure enough, Oikawa is there, seated on the plush blue couch. A delighted Hanamaki and Matsukawa flank him on either side.

Oikawa is holding his notebook in hand, but he startles and flips it closed as soon as he notices Hajime standing in the doorway, a soft blush stealing over his delicate features. Hajime raises an eyebrow, suspicious. What was he writing about?

“Iwaizumi!” Hanamaki shouts. “Why didn’t you tell us you had a guest? Or were you trying to keep this pretty boy here all to yourself?”

“Or should it be ‘Iwa-chan?’” Matsukawa grins at him lazily, arm draped over the back of the couch. It’s almost around Oikawa’s shoulders, Hajime notes, though not quite touching his skin. For some reason, the sight makes him bristle.

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps.

Oikawa pouts at him. Hajime ignores the way the expression pushes out his lips and makes them look fuller, almost pinker. Living with Oikawa, he thinks, has been an exercise in self-restraint that he did not sign up for.

Oikawa flips to a new page in the notebook. Hajime steps closer, around the low glass table, to read.

_Makki & Mattsun here were just talking about showing me around the city properly. Not like mean Iwa-chan who leaves me trapped here alone all day!! _

“You’re not trapped,” Hajime says. “I don’t care where you go.”

 _Rude!_ Oikawa hesitates for a moment before adding, _It’s ok though, I know you care_ _(≧◡≦) ♡_

Oikawa shows him the words with a flourish, obviously proud of his little drawing. Hajime snorts and reaches out to flick him on the forehead. “What the fuck is that, Shittykawa?”

Oikawa shoots him a reproachful glare. Its effect is somewhat lessened by the barely-suppressed twitch of his lips.

“It’s like we’re not even here,” Matsukawa says, amusement laced in his voice.

“I know. Disgusting.”

"That's what you get for showing up uninvited," Hajime says, but he realizes how close his face has gotten to Oikawa's and pulls away. There's an embarrassed heat crawling up the back of his neck, which he does his best to suppress.

"Good thing we did, though," Matsukawa says. "Or Oikawa might have died of boredom. Really, Iwaizumi, you've got to learn to treat your boytoys better—"

"He is _not_ my boytoy, what the fuck—"

Hanamaki claps his hands together and jumps to his feet, effectively cutting him off. Hajime is struck by the juxtaposition between his fine clothes and the mischievous look on his face, more suited to a street thief than a noble. He and Matsukawa are lords' sons, the both of them, but you wouldn’t know it if it weren’t for the silk blouses and fine leather boots. They’d look just as at home in some dingy pub, scamming drunkards out of their money by cheating at cards, as they would at a royal ball.

“Oikawa's new in town,” Hanamaki says. “What kind of hosts would we be if we didn’t show him all the finest Aoba Johsai has to offer?”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“C’mon, Iwa, where’s your sense of adventure gone? Did it finally get trained out of you?”

 _Scared, Iwa-chan?_ Oikawa adds, a challenging smirk on his face, like the instigator he is.

“Shut up." Hajime is struck by the sudden, childish desire to stick his tongue out at Oikawa, but he stops himself. He's supposed to be the bigger man here, but Oikawa just brings out the competitiveness in him. "Fine, let’s go. But don’t cry about it if you get lost.”

Knowing Oikawa, he would get distracted by some shiny bauble and stray away from the group, and Hajime would get a hell of a headache trying to trace their steps to find him.

_You have so little faith in me._

“‘Cause you don’t deserve it. Come on.”

He takes Oikawa to his bedroom and finds another change of clothes for the both of them. He hasn't managed to figure out how to get Oikawa clothes of his own without arousing more suspicion from the staff. Luckily, Oikawa is very good at making do with Hajime's wardrobe. He delights in picking pieces and matching pieces—the softer and more intricate, the better. And even though Hajime’s clothes are an awkward fit for him in some places, he always manages to look good.

Hajime, on the other hand, can't quite deny the annoying rush of heat he feels whenever he sees Oikawa wearing his things.

The clothes they have on now are too expensive to be worn outside of the palace. Hajime doesn’t have his mother’s beauty or his father’s pride, but he still cuts a recognizable figure as the prince of the kingdom, and there’s no need to draw more attention to his presence than necessary. He wants Oikawa to experience the Aoba Johsai streets the same way any other citizen would. For some reason, he thinks Oikawa would like that.

They change into plainclothes and knee-length hoods for extra protection. Oikawa still manages to look regal—he wears this princely air about him, always, even though it’s Hajime who’s the royal between them—but Hajime doesn’t let himself stare for too long. They regroup with Hanamaki and Matsukawa in the hallway.

 _Ready, Iwa-chan?_ Oikawa asks, beaming at him.

Hajime ignores the way that smile makes his insides flip-flop. "Ready," he says.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa roll their eyes at them and lead the way out into the city.

* * *

_One year ago_

Tooru waits behind the mossy rock, heart pounding. He'd arrived before the sun was in the sky, and he's been waiting for Iwaizumi ever since. Nerves coil tight under his skin, and his mind races, thoughts and anxieties careening out of control. 

He hates that he's so nervous. There's no point in worrying over whether Iwaizumi will show up; it's far too early for him to be here, anyway. But Tooru had woken up that morning in a panic, terrified that Iwaizumi would stop wanting to see him after the fight they had last time.

They've been meeting in this lagoon since they were eight years old, from the first moment they met. Neither has missed a Saturday until now.

No—Tooru mentally chastises himself. He just has to be patient. Iwaizumi still has time to show up. He hasn't abandoned Tooru yet.

_Yet._

Tooru's tentacles curl around him in a protective bubble.

Sometimes, Tooru thinks that maybe Iwaizumi is the only thing keeping him sane. Sometimes, the weight of his song becomes unbearable; his eighteenth birthday looms ever closer, and when it finally arrives, he'll be forced to kill for the first time. When his mother's expectations and the other mermaids' hostility get to be too much, Iwaizumi is the one thing he has to look forward to.

It's stupid and unfair, he knows. Iwaizumi has enough to worry about already, what with being trained to run an entire kingdom. He doesn't need to burden himself with Tooru, who's too cowardly to even show his face, on top of all that.

But he keeps coming back, every week. And each time he does, Tooru manages to breathe a little easier, even as he continues to fear that _next time_ is the time Iwaizumi will finally grow tired of him.

So Tooru waits, tracing absent patterns over the salt-crusted stone. He doesn't know how long he stays there. It's hard to tell time inside the cave, without any sort of light source to guide him, but he waits, and he hopes.

Then, minutes or hours later, his ears prick up at the scrape of a boot sole on the shale. He sucks in a sharp breath.

"Tooru?" Iwaizumi calls out. His voice is gentle, like he's scared he might scare Tooru away.

"Hajime," Tooru breathes. The twin waves of relief and guilt that crash over him are overwhelming, and he exhales shakily. Iwaizumi's hearing isn't as good as his is, but Tooru's heart is beating so loudly that he almost believes Iwaizumi must be able to track him with it anyway. He pictures Iwaizumi standing on the shore: arms crossed, still in formal dress because he didn't have time to change into anything more casual, sharp eyes roving over the choppy water and landing precisely on the rock Tooru is hidden behind.

Tooru wishes he could get closer. He wants to soak in the minute details of Iwaizumi's face; he wants to know the color of his eyes. But the few glimpses he steals here and there are already risky enough, so he contents himself with imagination.

"Tooru?" Iwaizumi asks again. "Don't tell me you're still holding a grudge, dumbass."

Tooru huffs. It's just like Iwaizumi to speak to him so crassly right after they've had their first big fight.

He hears Iwaizumi sigh, and then he hears a light scuffling sound that he attributes to Iwaizumi sitting down on the floor. 

After that, there's nothing but silence for a long second.

Iwaizumi breaks it. "I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have asked you to—you know. To sing for me. It was dumb."

That's the understatement of the century. Tooru doesn't want to remember the way Iwaizumi looked under the influence of his song—eyes black and empty, body lax. He never wants to see Iwaizumi so lifeless again.

But Tooru supposes that he has to take half the blame. He's always known exactly how dangerous a siren's song can be, but he agreed to sing anyway, just because it was Iwaizumi who asked.

"Everyone's heard the stories," Iwaizumi continues. "You don't swim alone, or at night, or when you're drunk, because then you might be lured in and drowned. I guess—I guess I didn't want believe you could ever hurt me."

"I didn't want to hurt you," Tooru says, loud enough to carry.

"So you _are_ here."

"Of course I am," Tooru scoffs, with a cheeriness he doesn't feel.

"It's hard to tell when I can't see you."

Tooru bites his lip hard, and his tentacles tense, wrapping around his body. He hears Iwaizumi's frustrated sigh and decides to risk a brief glance over the top of the rock. He watches as Iwaizumi drags a hand over his face, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders.

Before Iwaizumi can refocus on the water and spot him, he ducks back down. Iwaizumi is only seventeen, but he doesn't look it. He looks like he's already carrying the world on his back.

They're only seventeen. It shouldn't be this hard already.

"Fuck, sorry," Iwaizumi says. "I didn't mean to—I'm not trying to guilt trip you or anything. It's just… it kills me, you know? That you still think anything about you could drive me away."

Tooru's heart flutters, and he wants to tear out the traitorous thing and throw it to the sharks.

He knows he _likes_ Iwaizumi, but he also knows that he and Iwaizumi can never have a substantial relationship. So he wishes Iwaizumi would stop saying things like this that give him reason to hope.

A few years ago, Iwaizumi had sat down and introduced Tooru to the concept of what humans call art. Tooru couldn't fathom the point of it back then. Why would anyone want a painting or a statue of a human being when the real thing was so much better? So full of life?

But he thinks he understands the appeal now. The problem with loving people is that they have expectations. They're so easy to let down. They're so easy to drive away. Tooru wants to love Iwaizumi the way one loves a painting: possessively and objectively and one-sidedly. A painting of Iwaizumi, after all, would never care about knowing what he looks like.

But that wouldn't be fair to either of them.

"I don't want to talk about it, Hajime-chan."

"Right. I'm just saying—"

"Hajime," Tooru whines, "don't do this. If you keep talking, I'm going to have to disagree with you, and I don't want to fight with you anymore."

On any other day, Iwaizumi would push it further. He would yell at Tooru for being an idiot. But apparently they're both tired of arguing with each other now, so he backs down.

"Fine," he says. "Just let me say my piece, and then I'll never bring it up again."

"Yeah?"

"I still want to see what you look like," he starts. Then, before Tooru can protest: "Shut up, I'm not done. I still want to see you, but even if I never get to, I'm not going to leave. I'll take all the parts of you that you're comfortable with giving, and I'm going to stop asking for more, okay? Everything you've already shown me is enough."

A fond smile steals over Tooru's face, and he doesn't even bother to fight it. There's still that mild, prickling guilt at the back of his mind, the thought that Iwaizumi is being more patient with him than he deserves, but he pushes it away. "Can we promise something, Hajime-chan?" he asks.

"What do you want now?" But Tooru can hear the smile in his voice.

"Promise that I'll always be enough for you," Tooru says softly.

A brief, surprised silence. When Iwaizumi speaks again, his voice is gruffer than it was before. "Obviously, idiot."

Tooru smiles. "And I promise that you'll always be enough for me. I mean—I don't care if you're angry or upset when you're with me. I don't want you to be strong all the time like you have to be for everyone else."

"Are you giving me permission to be mean to you?" Iwaizumi asks, teasing.

"Shut up." Tooru flushes. This is getting a little too sentimental, even for him. "You know what I mean." 

"Yeah, I do. I promise."

"Good," Tooru says.

He listens as Iwaizumi climbs to his feet and dusts off his fine clothes. "I have to go—they'll be looking for me now," he says. "But—"

"But you'll be here next week, right?"

Iwaizumi snorts. "Were you even listening to anything I just said? Of course I'll be here."

"Rude, Hajime-chan. I was just checking."

Iwaizumi laughs softly. "Yeah, yeah. See you."

Tooru pokes his head out to the side of the rock to get a good look at Iwaizumi's back as he walks away. He seems lighter now, his footsteps more sure, and Tooru is glad to see it.

He lingers until he can no longer pretend, even with his heightened hearing, that Iwaizumi is still nearby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like the angst here is more "teen angst" than actually sad, but eh. senior year is kind of kicking my ass and i'm tired and i'm projecting.


	3. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas everyone!! enjoy this gift in the form of another chapter of the wip i was supposed to finish months ago.
> 
> i finally settled on only 4 chapters, so the end is approaching, everyone :D

The streets are busy this time of year, bustling with merchants hawking their wares. The air is filled with loud conversation and the tantalizing scent of fried food. There’s going to be a blue moon in less than a week, and everyone is rushing to prepare themselves for the Moon Festival that comes with it.

The power of the oceans is stronger when the moon is full, but it’s strongest on the night of a blue moon. People have been known to wander to the docks and drown themselves, unable to resist the mysterious lure of the waves. Years ago, the royal palace began the tradition of hosting a grand celebration on these nights, lasting well into dawn. Everyone hopes that the revelry will be enough to distract from the ocean’s strange call.

Someone tugs on Hajime’s arm, and he looks over. It’s Oikawa. He gestures with obvious impatience toward one of the food stalls nearby, curiosity shining in his eyes.

“Wait, Oikawa,” Hajime says. “Give me a sec.” He searches out Matsukawa and Hanamaki in the crowd. They’re at some sort of jewelry booth, haggling with the shopkeeper, and it doesn’t look like they’ll be done anytime soon. Reassured that they won’t be separated, he lets Oikawa lead him to the stall.

Their hands are linked. With Oikawa unable to call out to Hajime if they lose each other, it’s the most convenient way to navigate through the masses of people. That doesn’t mean Hajime has to like it. His palm burns where it’s pressed against Oikawa’s. Their fingers slot too perfectly against each other.

They make their way to the vendor, Hajime stumbling the last few steps when Oikawa pulls too hard. He catches himself in time and adjusts his hood so it casts a slight shadow over his face. Oikawa has foregone his hood entirely. It’s unlikely that anyone will recognize him anyway, since even he can’t say where he came from.

“Oh! Hello there, young man,” the woman says, wiping her hands on her apron. “Can I interest you boys in anything?”

Oikawa bumps Hajime’s shoulder and quirks his head at the sparse menu plastered to one of the stall’s wooden beams.

They’ve been shopping for hours, and Hajime has long grown resigned to his position as Oikawa’s personal wallet. He grabs a few coins out of the pouch at his side and hands them over. The woman beams at him before getting to work.

Oikawa watches her prepare the dango with wide eyes, coating the balls of dough with mitarashi sauce and sesame seeds. Hajime, though, watches Oikawa: the insolent slant of his lovely mouth, the roses high in his cheeks. The windswept hair that adheres to no particular style but suits him anyway. He realizes that they’re still holding hands and quickly lets go. Oikawa turns to him with a puzzled frown, and Hajime averts his gaze, clearing his throat. He happens to lock eyes with the vendor, who winks at him in a way that’s far too knowing. His face heats up, guilt pooling in his stomach. This is torture.

Once the dango is finished, the vendor places the three skewers on a bay leaf, which she hands to Oikawa. With a jaunty wave, she ushers them away and busies herself with the next customer. Oikawa takes a bite and lights up; his pleased smile isn’t good for Hajime’s heart. Hajime grabs his hand again, and they duck back into the crowd.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa, sure enough, are still arguing. “We said we wouldn’t go higher than fifty yen, old man,” Hanamaki says. “Take it or leave it.”

A simple jade pendant, probably fake, dangles from his fingers. Hajime doubts there’s anything special about it. Knowing Hanamaki, he picked it at random; the noble likes the thrill of bargaining more than he likes actually owning things.

Matsukawa greets Oikawa and Hajime with an amused smile.

“How much longer do you think they’ll take?” Hajime asks.

Matsukawa shrugs. “Who knows? Hiro can do this all day. Not sure about the other guy.”

With a mischievous grin, Oikawa presses a finger to his lips in the universal gesture for _be quiet._ He reaches over and tugs on Hanamaki’s hair, laughing silently when Hanamaki jumps and swivels his head around.

“‘Zumi,” he complains upon seeing Oikawa, “control your man.”

“He’s not my man,” Hajime says. “And I couldn’t control him anyway.”

Oikawa, pouting, reaches for his pocket to grab the pen and paper tucked there, but he’s stopped by the shopkeeper. “That’s a real nice necklace you’ve got there,” he drawls, eyes fixed on the nautilus shell hanging around Oikawa’s neck. “How much?”

Startled, Oikawa shakes his head.

“Seriously, how much? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Oikawa’s lips press into a thin line. His hand curls into a fist around the shell, blocking it from view.

“I’ll throw in your friend’s necklace for free,” the shopkeeper offers.

“Hey, knock it off,” Hanamaki says. “I don’t want your dumb necklace anyway.”

“Come on, let me see,” the shopkeeper says, ignoring him. “I’ll give it back. Just wanna get a good look in.”

But Oikawa won’t budge, and Hajime grabs his arm and leads him away. He glares at the man on his way out for good measure.

Oikawa polishes off the last of his dango without much enthusiasm. The mood ruined, Hajime decides that it’s about time to return to the palace. When they reach the inner city, Hanamaki and Matsukawa bid them goodbye and split off toward their own homes, and Hajime and Oikawa walk in silence the rest of the way.

“Hey, Oikawa,” Hajime says when they’re safe in his salon again. “You okay?”

Oikawa, curled up on a plush sofa, shrugs.

Hajime sets a fresh quill and piece of parchment in front of him. “You don’t have to write if you don’t want,” he says, gentling his voice, “but what’s wrong? Is it about the necklace?”

Slowly, eyes never leaving Hajime’s face, he nods. _It’s complicated,_ he writes. _It was a gift from my mother._

“Ah,” Hajime says. From Oikawa’s expression, it doesn’t seem like a happy memory. “Do you want to… can you talk about it?”

_I don’t think so._ Oikawa frowns. _I wouldn’t mind telling you, but if I try, I don’t think my body would let me._

Over the past couple of weeks, they’ve gotten better at determining the limit of what Oikawa can and can’t say. But Hajime has never been as frustrated to be in the dark as he is now.

“I’m sorry, then. Is there anything I can do?”

_I don’t know,_ Oikawa writes. Then: _Actually_ —

He crosses it out again. _Nothing. Thank you, Iwa-chan._

“No, wait.” Hajime rests his hand on Oikawa’s shoulder. Their eyes lock, and Oikawa’s gaze burns into his. “Let me help if I can.”

Painfully slow, Oikawa lets go of the paper and reaches for Hajime’s hand. He grabs it and, when Hajime doesn’t resist, folds their fingers together again. His eyes search Hajime’s face for discomfort. _Is this okay?_ he seems to ask.

“Yeah,” Hajime breathes, despite the twisting in his chest. “It’s fine. You’re fine.” He squeezes Oikawa’s hand.

Oikawa squeezes back. He smiles, but there’s an edge to it that Hajime doesn’t understand.

The week leading up to the festival passes in a blur. Though the palace ballroom will be reserved for noble guests, the courtyard is to be opened for all the townsfolk to enter. There are decorations to be arranged, food to prepare, and dances to rehearse, and Hajime, as the crown prince, is required to supervise. It’s boring, finicky work, when all he really wants to do is spend his days on the beach or with Oikawa.

But the ocean is dangerous with the blue moon approaching, and Oikawa seems to have disappeared. More often than not, Hanamaki and Matsukawa appear to drag him away while Hajime is occupied with his duties. When he tries to ask where they’re going, he’s met with secretive smiles and laughter.

He’s a little lonely, to tell the truth. Before Oikawa had washed up on that beach, Hajime hadn’t realized how few friends he had. There are Hanamaki and Matsukawa, of course, but they can’t stay at the palace all the time. There’s Tooru, but meetings once a week aren’t the same as seeing someone every day. Hajime feels horrible thinking it, because Tooru should be _enough_ for him. He’d promised that Tooru was enough, that he would wait as long as it took for him to be reader, and then Oikawa walks into his life and turns everything upside-down.

How can Hajime even consider changing his mind after so many years? So many promises and illicit visits? Is he really shallow enough to do that to Tooru? He’s a horrible person.

“Your highness?” someone asks. It’s Yachi, several rolls of rich jewel-toned fabrics bundled in her arms.

Hajime blinks, staring at her. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” she says, dipping her head. “I asked whether these colors are okay for the tables in the grand hall?”

Hajime surveys them quickly: emerald green, a red so deep it’s borderline purple, and a dark blue that reminds him of the ocean. “They look fine,” he says with a tight smile.

As the day of the festival approaches, Hajime finds that his periods of inattention grow in frequency. Despite his lack of physical contact with both Tooru and Oikawa, they’re always on his mind. He wonders if Tooru is okay, if there’s a reason he didn’t show up at their last meeting. He wonders what Oikawa does when Matsukawa and Hanamaki take him into town each day. In his worst moments, he wonders if maybe they’ve both grown tired of him.

Whenever those thoughts creep up, he shoves them away. If he’s going to be king one day, he can’t afford to have them.

They finish all their preparations on time, less than an hour before sunset. Hajime, dressed in formal attire befitting his status, a gold coronet affixed to his hair, watches from the balcony of his room as a flood of commoners begins to leave their houses. Some stick to the city streets, but others wander down to the palace, and the wind brings faint echoes of their laughter to Hajime’s ears.

The festival is starting, which means he has a post to attend to. He braces himself for a long night of sitting atop his throne and greeting the various persons of importance that will attempt to win his favor. The ball is put on for the benefit of the people, but Hajime would have to be stupid not to realize that it’s also an opportunity for the king and queen to introduce him to potential suitors. He doesn’t have much time before he’ll be forced to pick someone.

When Hajime enters the ballroom, the music slows to a stop. The crowd watches him take his seat on the daïs, hiding their hushed gossip behind painted fans and dainty lace gloves. The king and queen are already on their thrones to either side of him. Opposite them is a grand marble staircase. Every noble or foreign dignitary who is eligible to ask for his hand will be making their entrance from those steps tonight.

The music starts again, softer this time, and the first suitor emerges. Raven-haired and serious, she climbs down the stairs and floats across the room without a single misstep. She curtsies to Hajime’s parents, and then to Hajime himself, and the herald announces her as Princess Kiyoko Shimizu of nearby Karasuno.

The king makes a quiet noise of approval. Hajime knows what he’s thinking; Kiyoko is beautiful, and a marriage alliance with Karasuno would be advantageous. Hajime will be obligated to dance with her at least once tonight, but for now he smiles at her and watches as she walks off to the side.

The second suitor belongs to the Yahaba family, a wealthy merchant clan with control over a key trade route to the island country of Nekoma. Yahaba Shigeru is young and seems eager to prove himself, but Hajime finds himself thinking that his hair isn’t quite the right shade of brown.

So it goes. Suitors arrive and are dismissed in turn, and Hajime has to pinch his thigh to keep his mind from wandering. It won’t do to make any powerful enemies by looking bored during their introductions.

Eventually, the line of suitors is exhausted, and the ball begins. Hajime, as is expected, offers his first dance to Kiyoko, but he trades partners as soon as the song ends. He winds his way around the room, spinning from suitor to suitor, thankful to the years of ballroom lessons that prevent him from making a fool of himself. After a particularly difficult foxtrot, he kisses his partner’s hand and lets them go. He sighs when someone else taps his shoulder, wanting the night to be over, but he puts on a smile and faces them anyway.

The smile morphs into surprise when he finds Matsukawa standing there wearing an impish grin. “Where have you been?” Hajime hisses. “You and Hanamaki should have been here hours ago.”

Matsukawa smirks. “I know, I know, things get boring without us around to spice things up. We had some things to take care of, and they ran longer than we thought.”

“‘We?’” Hajime’s suspicions grow. “Does this have anything to do with—”

“Care to dance?” Matsukawa asks. “It’s only fair, since I saved you from a night of boredom. You looked like your mouth was going to fall off if you had to smile any longer.”

Scowling, Hajime takes his hand. Matsukawa leads, and Hajime is too preoccupied trying to figure out the follower’s footwork to ask any further questions.

Matsukawa maneuvers them through the crowd of other couples. His movements are focused, precise, like he has a specific destination in mind. And sure enough, they end up in the exact middle of the ballroom. Matsukawa stops, turning Hajime toward the grand staircase just as the last notes of the waltz fade away.

Hajime frowns. “What are you…”

Murmurs fill the room when yet another figure steps out onto the staircase. Hajime’s breath catches in his throat.

It’s Oikawa, more regal than Hajime has ever seen him. He’s wearing a navy blue swallowtail jacket and a cravat, tapered white pants tucked into shiny boots. A gloved hand rests on the balustrade to guide his steps as he descends. His bangs have been swept to the side to reveal bright brown eyes which, despite the dim lighting, are fixed on Hajime.

In one smooth motion, the crowd parts. Oikawa nods to them in thanks, and Hajime watches his approach with bated breath.

When he comes to a stop, Oikawa’s eyes crinkle, and he reaches into his breast pocket to pull out a slip of paper. Unfolded, it reads _May I have this dance?_ and he holds out an expectant hand.

Hajime is helpless but to take it. He’s helpless but to let Oikawa bring their bodies together, his gravity as inexorable and fluid as the tide.

“Is this why you’ve been sneaking off?” Hajime asks.

Oikawa smiles, a tad sheepish, but beautiful nonetheless. His fingers are warm and gentle on Hajime’s waist.

“I was worried, you idiot,” Hajime tells him.

Oikawa’s smile grows smug.

“Shut up.” It’s truly impressive how insufferable Oikawa manages to be without saying a word. “I take it back. I didn’t miss you at all.”

Oikawa beams. He takes Hajime’s hand and pulls him toward the exit of the ballroom.

“Where are you going?” Hajime grumbles. “The dance isn’t over.” Still, he lets himself be led away.

Though the material of Oikawa’s gloves is soft, Hajime finds himself reminded of their day at the marketplace. He wants to touch Oikawa’s bare skin again, wants to hold his hand with nothing between them. Then Hajime tells his brain to shut up.

They end up in a deserted alcove in some distant wing of the palace, far enough from the ball that there won’t be any eavesdroppers.

Oikawa lifts Hajime’s hand and splays out his fingers until it lays flat. He takes off one of his gloves and brings the tip of his finger to the center of Hajime’s palm, and Hajime understands.

He closes his eyes to better focus on Oikawa’s touch.

_I,_ Oikawa traces. Hajime shivers.

_I lo_

_I lov_

_I love… you?_

Hajime’s eyes snap open, but there must be something wrong with his vision because he can’t see anything but Oikawa’s face. The embarrassed flush in his cheeks and the fear in his eyes, the way he worries at his bottom lip with his teeth.

He should have expected this, but bile rises in his throat. He hasn’t had enough time to sort everything out, doesn’t know how to answer.

Oikawa’s fingers tighten around Hajime’s hand. Hajime imagines Tooru out in the dark ocean somewhere, maybe scared or trapped or lost.

The air has all left his lungs. He’s drowning, drowning—

“Oikawa,” Hajime chokes. “I—I don’t know—I can’t—”

The effect is immediate. Oikawa’s expression shutters, falling into perfect blankness. He wrenches his hands away like he’s been burned and bends into a stiff bow, far too formal, like they’re strangers. Then he runs away.

“Wait, Oikawa—” Hajime tries, but Oikawa’s steps quicken at the sound of his voice.

Hajime wants to run after him, but his legs are frozen to the ground. Soon Oikawa disappears from sight. The only thing he leaves behind is a single silk glove lying abandoned on the floor.

Slowly, the ice in Hajime’s bloodstream melts away. His thoughts remain a jumbled mess, but at least he can move again. He kneels and picks up the glove, finding it faintly warm from being pressed against Oikawa’s skin.

Oikawa is gone.

Oikawa is gone, and it’s the most dangerous night of the year.

_Fuck._

* * *

_One year and one month ago:_

Sirens don’t mind thunderstorms, but the humans above see them as bad omens. Iwaizumi told him this once. Tooru never gave it much thought, but maybe he should have. On the day of their first fight, it’s storming.

Tooru takes the long way to the cove, luxuriating in the cool ocean current. The water always feels fresher on rainy days, charged with energy. He surfaces behind his usual rock with a satisfied splash, having already sensed Iwaizumi’s presence nearby. It’s one of the few times the prince has arrived before him.

“Hajime-chan!” Tooru greets.

“Someone sounds excited today,” Iwaizumi says, amused.

“I love the rain,” Tooru says. “Sometimes when it rains, I swim up to the surface and float and let the drops hit my skin.”

“That sounds nice. My parents would kill me if I came home soaking wet.”

“Oh… yeah.” Tooru’s mom doesn’t approve of his eccentric tendencies either, but he’s learned tricks to evade her. Frowning, he changes the subject. “How are you going to get home today, then?”

“I brought an umbrella,” Iwaizumi says.

“A what?”

“Uh. It’s like a sheet of fabric on a stick. We hold it above our hands to block out the rain.”

Tooru blinks. He has no idea what such a thing would look like.

“I have it right here,” Iwaizumi tells him, and his voice sounds… hopeful? “If you want to take a look. I’ll just turn around.”

Instinctively, Tooru plasters himself against the rock, making himself smaller. Iwaizumi has brought him various trinkets from the human world before, but he usually leaves them behind when he returns to the palace and lets Tooru swim out and inspect them on his own time. Tooru’s never been so close to the shore with Iwaizumi still present.

“Hajime-chan,” Tooru says, voice subdued, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“I won’t look,” Iwaizumi promises again.

“I didn’t think you would. It’s just—it’s me. I can’t do it.” Tooru hates how weak he sounds. Iwaizumi deserves better, truly.

“But why?” Iwaizumi is becoming agitated now. “I’ve already told you I don’t care what you look like. I swear, Tooru, I’m not going to leave.”

“You will,” Tooru tells him. He’s thought about showing Iwaizumi his face before; he knows, at least, that he’s attractive from the waist up, but his bloodline is a slippery slope. If Iwaizumi catches a glimpse of his face, there’s a chance that he’ll be _lured,_ that he’ll grow even more obsessed with seeing the whole thing. Worse, he might start to wonder what’s so hideous about Tooru’s lower half that his pretty features can’t make up for it.

“No, I _won’t.”_ Iwaizumi says. “Stop trying to make up my mind for me! Stop giving up before you even know how I’ll react!”

“I do know!” Tooru exclaims. He stares hard at his tentacles. They’re slimy and black and cold, like eight wriggling eels. The area around his waist where the normal skin ends is mottled with yellow-purple blotches that look like old bruises. It’s far too easy for Tooru to picture the tentacles wrapping around a human throat and _squeezing,_ and he wants to throw up. No one could stand the sight of them.

“Everyone leaves,” Tooru says.

There’s a clattering noise from the beach. It sounds like Iwaizumi kicking a rock or something in frustration. “God, you’re—you’re so _infuriating!_ Why is it so hard for to believe that someone could—” Iwaizumi stops.

“Could what?” Tooru asks.

“Could care about you.”

Tooru’s eyes sting, and he presses the palms of his hands against them. “I didn’t ask you to care,” he says. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” Iwaizumi shoots back. “Damn it, Tooru. I don’t know what you’ve gone through to make you think like this, but it’s fucking hard to sit here and listen to your bullshit about how you don’t deserve me.”

Shoulders trembling, Tooru presses a hand over his mouth to prevent Hajime from hearing him cry. “I can’t…” he begins after a few seconds, “Ask me for anything else, Hajime. I can’t let you see me.”

Iwaizumi sighs so loud that Tooru could probably hear it without his advanced senses.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Tooru echoes. He takes a few calming breaths while Iwaizumi thinks about the offer.

Finally: “Sing for me?” Iwaizumi asks.

Tooru’s heartbeat, just having returned to normal, kicks into overdrive again.

_“What?”_ Tooru breathes, because he must have misheard.

“Will you sing for me?” Iwaizumi asks. His voice is so steady, and Tooru almost laughs. He can’t possibly understand what he’s asking.

“Do you know what I am?” Tooru asks. “Do you know what that’ll do to you?”

“You said it’s not as effective before you’re eighteen,” Iwaizumi says.

That’s… technically true. It’s not the age that matters; it’s the coming-of-age ceremony. Though a siren has their song from birth, its effects are dampened until the first time it’s used to kill. After that, the potency grows.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous,” Tooru says. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I trust you,” Iwaizumi says, and Tooru’s resolve weakens.

Maybe it could work, if they’re careful. He needs to meet Iwaizumi halfway, doesn’t he? He should compromise on something.

“If I sing,” Tooru says, “then you need to—um, do you have rope or something? You need to tie yourself down. Or prevent yourself from moving somehow. And I’m cutting it off after ten seconds.”

“That’s fine,” Iwaizumi says. There’s some shuffling, and then he says, “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Alright.” Tooru takes a deep breath and reaches deep inside himself. He’s never sung before, but the pull of the ocean has always been inside him. It’s instinct, primal. When he opens his mouth, he surprises himself with the haunting clarity of the notes that emerge.

The melody reverberates off the stone walls. It’s the sound of the sea in a conch shell, magnified ten thousandfold. It’s sweet and mellifluous, but there’s an unmistakable savagery to it: the hunting call of a predator. Even though he’s the one singing, Tooru’s eyelids grow heavy. He can’t imagine what the effect must be for a human listener.

Abruptly reminded of Iwaizumi, Tooru snaps his mouth shut. The last echoes of his song fade away, and all that’s left is a terrible silence.

“Hajime-chan?” Tooru asks.

No answer.

“Hajime-chan?” Again, louder.

Nothing. Tooru’s nails dig into his skin. He frowns and concentrates harder in the direction he last heard Iwaizumi.

Still nothing, at first. And then his ears pick up a low, incoherent mumbling and the sound of straw chafing against skin.

Alarmed, Tooru ducks out from behind the rock and searches for Iwaizumi on the shore. When he sees him, Tooru stops breathing.

Iwaizumi has bound his wrists and ankles together, but now he’s trying to break free. He growls in the restraints, pulling at the rope so hard his skin is starting to rub raw. His eyes are black and unseeing, possessed by the memory of Tooru’s song.

Without a second thought, Tooru propels himself forward. He launches himself onto the sand and pins Iwaizumi down.

“Hajime-chan!” Tooru shouts. He grabs the prince and shakes him. “Hajime!”

Iwaizumi doesn’t even blink. Tooru swallows, tasting ashes. He so desperately wishes that his first time seeing Iwaizumi up close could have been in a kinder context.

“Wake up,” Tooru murmurs, patting his face. “Wake up, wake up, wake _up…”_

It’s not working. Iwaizumi’s muscles strain despite Tooru’s weight holding him down. He’s out of his mind, and if Tooru doesn’t fix this, he’s going to jump into the ocean and drown.

Terrified, Tooru collects a handful of saltwater and splashes it on Iwaizumi’s face. The prince splutters and chokes. His limbs seize, and then they go lax, and Tooru panics. Did he just die? Humans are so fragile.

But then Iwaizumi’s eyes flutter closed, and Tooru breathes a sigh of relief. That’s good, right? That means his body is still functioning. He brings two fingers to Iwaizumi’s neck and is reassured to find a stable pulse.

The trance is gone; Iwaizumi is only sleeping. Tooru studies him for a few seconds, drinking in the details of his face, before biting through the rope around his wrists and slipping into the water.

Glancing back at the peaceful figure laid out on the shore, revulsion fills Tooru. The image of Iwaizumi’s hollow black eyes is imprinted in his memory now, and he hates that he was the cause of something so monstrous.

Gritting his teeth, Tooru swims faster, weaving through the underwater labyrinth of caverns and kelp. He’s so stupid. He’s spent so much time trying to avoid driving Iwaizumi again, and it’s all for nothing now.

He’ll be lucky if Iwaizumi ever wants to speak to him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heheheheheheheh :))))))
> 
> double angst!! hope you guys liked it!!
> 
> also just to clarify, when oiks says that he feels like he should meet iwa in the middle by singing to him, that wasn't advice. you should never feel forced to compromise on something you're uncomfortable with!
> 
> see you next year :>

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thelittlebirdthattoldyou)
> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated!!


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